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Early Spring Sunshine

She sits alone,
early sun
warms her;
it is sheltered here
this little oasis
suspended high,
the sounds
of feet on cobbles,
murmurs of conversation
drift like smoke rings
and the rings
she long since dispensed
catch light in prisms
of her imagination.

A small glass
not quite ruby,
the sweetness
a lipstick
as crumbs fall
in dainty flakes
like the confetti
they threw
and the blossom
caught on a wind
that blew,
ever eastward.

Her balcony faces west
and if she squints
she can still hear
the child in her
rising early to
the sounds of the
cathedral bells
and the smell of
baking in the air,
coffee and chocolate
cinnamon and swirls
of cream poured,
that endless drip
and a bone china smile
from cold azure eyes,
fingers still agile
that snip and snap.

The incense still
makes her sick
and the ghosts
of memorial marches
beat a rhythm,
she prefers the way it is now
and the drums recede,
she purrs
as merrily perches
watching birds,
they'll find the crumbs
as drifts of memories float by;
an old woman
but never in black
Oh God, never in black,
crows picking at the corpses
of the maiden years,
she prefers
her madam ways
and the sway of thoughts
that tickle and smile
as she strokes the orange fur.

Merrily muses
and the traffic is silenced,
just a Sunday
is so many Sundays past and present
and those not yet met,
madeira and biscuits pur buerre
and the distant chatter of lovers
and liars and children
with mischief on their breaths,
their honeysuckle mouths,
rosy red and loud
throwing pennies in the fountains
a sprinkle on the dish,
fingers swirling in the dust.

She sits, not alone
when memories run riot
and colours seer in scents
and aromas of a life once lived.

Poetry by Elle